Balance
by AquilaKate
Summary: Paige is recruited to go undercover for an FBI case, with Mike at the helm. But working with your partner isn't all it's cracked up to be. Can the two keep their professional problems from leaking into their personal paradise? Established Pike.
1. Chapter 1

Mike swears up and down that he tries his best to keep from waking her when he slips out for his morning run, but either his best isn't good enough and never has been or he's just full of it and isn't trying very hard. And the arrogant grin on his face when he sees her glaring at him through one barely opened eye and his continued attempts to drag her along don't help his case.

"Shit, you're up," he says innocently, sitting on the edge of her bed and pulling his sneakers out from their almost permanent position under her nightstand.

"Depending on your definition," Paige allows. His absences creates the perfect opportunity to move into the warm indent left in the bed, and she takes full advantage of it, pulling her own pillow along and holding his loosely to her chest.

"Sorry." He isn't. "Want to come with me?"

She doesn't bother opening her eyes.

"Come on," he complains. "You like to run."

"I like to sleep, too."

He scoots back further on the bed to give himself room to tie the laces, and Paige curls around his hips. Mike laughs.

"I don't understand why anyone likes running at night. It's like you _want_ someone to try to jump you."

"You got me," she murmurs sleepily into his thigh. "I'm a vigilante. I tell you I'm going jogging when I'm really fighting crime. In a costume."

"I knew it. If anyone ever belonged in spandex…"

One eye opens again and she uses it to line up a punch right between his shoulder blades. He doubles over with a rush of air, trying not to let her see him smirk and doing a terrible job of it.

"Why won't you come with me?" he tries one more time, either trying to pat her hip under the covers and overreaching or aiming for her ass and hitting the mark. "It's not like you're ever still in bed when I get back anyway."

Against her better judgement and efforts to prevent it, she can feel her eyes gradually widening from slits to their normal daytime position and her mind clearing the sleep until she's mostly alert. He's right, she won't be able to sleep now. She never does.

Sprawling out at the head of the bed, she rolls over onto her back and tries to take advantage of having her bed all to herself again but it's no use. She sighs.

"Maybe it doesn't feel right laying here all by myself."

The shuffling on the end of the bed silences, and Paige glances over to see Mike, still and quiet, staring at her. "What?"

He shrugs. "Nothing."

"Something," she corrects.

He's smiling at her, officially running behind schedule now that they've taken the time to expand on their routine morning grumbling at each other. But he doesn't seem to mind, and she likes to think that she's at least been a factor in getting him to mellow out.

"Are you going to kick me if I say that that's practically a sonnet coming from you?" he asks finally.

She does.

Groaning, she jams her shoulder into his back and pushes until he's scrambling off the bed, chuckling under his breath.

"Go," Paige orders. "Get out of here. Run to Vegas for all I care. I'll still be in this bed when you get back."

Just to spite him, she lounges in bed for another twenty minutes.

But, as predicted, she doesn't sleep.

It's still way too early when she's crouched in the sand, wax caked under her fingernails as she puts the finishing touches on the old surfboard of Johnny's that's been passed down to Mike. Her own board is waxed and ready to go behind her, and she's considering starting on her own when she spots him coming down his final stretch of sand.

"How did you know I was in the mood for a cool down in the water?" he asks, huffing and puffing but still pausing to reach down and help her stand.

Paige smiles and dodges Mike's sweaty arm as it tries to swing around her shoulders, knowing from experience that it'll make the sand stick to her and itch when she puts on her wetsuit. "Who says the board's for you?"

"My investigative instincts and superior powers of observation." It's half mumbled through the neck of the bottle of water he's pouring down his throat, but it still comes out smug. Paige kicks sand at him.

Board under her arm, she heads for the water. Over her shoulder, she can see Mike struggling into his rash guard while trying not to tip himself over onto his ass and tucks her chin to her shoulder to hide an affectionate grin.

The surf is pretty dead today which sucks because for once she has plenty of time to enjoy it. On the bright side, she gets the opportunity to lay flat on her board, which is rocking gently in the calm water, and feel the sun on her face; all while Mike tries to mimic the pose without really finding his center of balance and ends up rolling into the ocean.

This is enjoyable for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that getting to appear languid and casual while Mike flounders is easily one of her top ten favorite activities.

She closes her eyes and pretends not to be watching, but as soon as she does she feels a shadow across her torso and a voice surprisingly close to her ear. "Show off."

"I have no idea what you mean," she says airily, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on her hand so she can look him right in the eye.

Mike rolls his eyes. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"Trouble," she winks. "Literally. There's a banger called Trouble that sets up shop on the beach every Tuesday. Going to see if he has anything fun for me to get into."

Mike scrunches his face into what Paige likes to call his "get me out of this screwed up place, I belong in DC" look. Unable to resist, she leans in and steals a quick peck and when she pull back she can taste the salt on her lips.

Grinning, he carefully wraps his arm around her waist and tows her closer so the board is floating both of them and he can stop treading water. "And if Trouble doesn't come through for you?"

She shrugs, nuzzling into the warm skin on his shoulder. "Then I find some trouble for myself." Then, as an afterthought, "Lowercase trouble."

"Oh good," he laughs. "Though, if uppercase Trouble is really what you want…"

Paige twists her shoulders sharply, thrusting herself into the water and dragging him in with her.

* * *

She takes first shower while Mike checks in with Charlie and Briggs about some FBI op that got started the night before. Technically, she guesses that Johnny is supposed to be there too, but instead he's there in the bathroom, knocking his hip into hers as they brush their teeth, even though there's plenty of room for both of them.

Her hair is still damp as heads down the stairs, but at least it isn't salty anymore. In the kitchen, the three FBI agents are perched on the stools at the breakfast bar, heads together. Briggs hops up when she enters, and she climbs onto his seat as he moves to the other side of the counter and uncovers a foil covered plate.

"Good morning, sunshine," he says, thrusting a plate stacked high with waffles and strawberries (and covered liberally with powdered sugar) in her direction.

Involuntarily, she can feel her eyes widening and her lips pulling back into a grin because waffles are her favorite and these appear to be excellent ones. Then she remembers that to make them someone had to climb on a chair and get the waffle maker out of the top cabinet, and that combined with the careful preparation that went into the toppings can only mean…

"You're going to ask me to do something that I'm going to hate," Paige accuses, grabbing a fork and digging in. Even if they are bribery waffles, they still look good.

"We were actually going to make Mike ask you to do something that you're going to hate," Paul admits. "Juice?"

She nods reluctantly.

Charlie pulls her own stool closer and hands her a file folder to peruse as she steals a bite of her waffles. "Six shootings in the past couple months, all done with unregistered weapons that seem to come out of nowhere. They're ghost guns. We haven't even been able to trace them back to the broker, let alone the source."

"And no one's talking," Mike adds from Charlie's other side. "Only connection we have is that we can put all six shooters in this little bar out towards Rolling Hills at least once before the day of the shootings."

"Handguns mostly," Paige mumbles, eyes on the file balanced on her forearm as she sips from her juice glass. "Some nasty calibers though. Anything special about them?"

Charlie shakes her head. "Plain Jane. Nothing especially high-powered. Wouldn't even be illegal if they weren't being dumped onto the street unregistered."

There's a nudge at her shoulder and Paige looks up to see Briggs brandishing a can of whipped cream. God, they're laying it on thick. The FBI must really be in a bind.

"So what do you want me to do?" she asks, nodding for Paul to add whipped cream to the side of the plate that she's already polished off.

He grins. "Our bar needs a tender. And Mike isn't near pretty enough."

 _Damn it_.

"Charlie's pretty!" she moans desperately. "Charlie's gorgeous!"

"I'm not arguing with you there," Briggs says patiently, patting her shoulder sympathetically. "And that was our plan. But Chuckie here went in there last night and did terrible things to a man with the toothpick from his turkey club."

Charlie shrugs, unabashed. "He grabbed my ass, I stabbed his. Got fired."

Grudgingly impressed, Paige lifts her hand for a high five. Charlie obliges.

"I still don't understand how that happened," Mike complains. "I've seen you hold your temper through worse."

"I made a slight miscalculation!" Charlie defends, whirling around to jab an angry finger in his direction. "I thought they'd think it was charming. You know, appreciate a strong woman sticking up for herself."

Briggs chuckles. "Maybe not an hour into your first shift."

"And now we know," she says, gently tapping Paige's arm with the back of her hand. "I make these mistakes so you don't have to."

Paige nods. "Don't stab anyone on the first day, got it."

It's not actually as bad as she was expecting. She doesn't love bartending, but she doesn't have to kiss anyone or shoot up or anything. It could be worse.

"Fine," she sighs, thinking of the decent tips she's bound to make. "At least tell me it's a beach bar. Surf jerks love me."

Charlie shakes her head and wraps her arm around Paige's shoulders. "So do I, sweets, but me and the surf jerks only make up so much of the offending population. From what I've seen, it's pretty laid back. No college kids. Mostly thirty, forty-somethings looking for a beer after work."

"I can live with that. As long as I'm not mixing drinks some twenty-two year old found on Pinterest, I guess it's okay."

Her plate is empty now, except for streaks of whipped cream and powdered sugar that she scrapes up with her fork uses to coat the one remaining strawberry. Briggs smiles as he clears her dishes and tips his head toward Mike.

"Your lesser half's running point on this one," he says. "He'll take you to the bar and fill you in."

"Got it." She hops off her stool and snags Mike by the hand. "Come on, Agent Warren. Let's go find us some trouble."

* * *

They park the truck far enough off to the side that it doesn't look like they're casing the place and case the place. It doesn't take long. It's a small bar to begin with, and there's not much business in the middle of the day. Mike props the case file up on the steering will and hands her a stack of pictures so she can put faces to names.

"Who are we looking at for this?" she asks.

Mike shrugs. "Charlie didn't get too far before they sent her packing. So far the only speck of dirt on this place is a cook with some gang activity on his record. But it's kid stuff. Literal kid stuff, he was sixteen."

"Long time ago." She notices him scowling at her bare feet on the dashboard and grins, remembering him complaining last week about toe prints on the windshield. "What about the owner? He'd have the kind of pull he'd need to keep people from asking questions."

"Can't rule him out. We're also looking at a regular customer that's there all the time."

"Think the bar's not involved and he's just setting up shop?"

"Could be." He leans over to pluck his picture out of Paige's pile and laughs when she wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, he's a real looker. And you're going to get to look at him every night from what Johnny says."

Johnny's having the time on his life on this case. For the past two weeks, he's been ingraining himself as one of the regulars; a problem drinker who's there till last call every night and should probably get some help. But he's the life of the party and no one is too careful about they say around him because they know he won't remember it anyway. Johnny just likes finding creative ways to get rid of his alcohol without drinking it and dancing on the tables.

A thick pack of papers lands in her lap and Paige startles. "What is this?"

"Your resumé and some things about your cover."

"My… _Mike_."

She flips through the packet with trepidation, holding the paper by the tips of her fingers like it's going to sting her. Heaven help her, it's on stationary and bound with some kind of report cover.

"First of all," she says with what she thinks should pass for extreme patience. "This is not how you get a job in a place like this. And second, why the hell am I from Rhode Island?"

"That's how you get a job everywhere," he says slowly, looking confused. "And you're from Rhode Island because it has no discernable accent and no one's ever been there."

Paige rolls her eyes. "If I go in there claiming to be from Rhode Island, one of the seven people on the planet that are actually from Rhode Island is going to be there to quiz me. And there's no help wanted sign. Why did I go to the trouble of typing all…" She waves her hands over the paper covering her lap. "… _this_ up if I don't even know if they're hiring?"

Looking like _he_ has to call on all of his patience to deal with _her_ , Mike smirks. "Paige," he says. "You know they're hiring."

"Okay, smart ass. How does the me that isn't an undercover DEA agent know they're hiring?"

Got him there.

While he's still trying to work it out, she gently slides the papers out of her lap and into his. Her shoes are wedged under the seat and she has to fish them out before she slips them back on and smoothes her hair.

"I'm Paige," she starts, already opening truck door. "I need a job. I'm from here because I am from here and I know my way around. I like clothes that look like they're from a thrift store but have never actually been in a thrift store, and I knit, but only until I get old enough that it's not ironic anymore, then I'll quit. Sound good?"

"This is a bad idea," he moans, head on the steering wheel.

Paige leans over a presses a quick kiss to the back of his head. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck with your bad idea."

She flips him off as she slides her sunglasses off her head onto her eyes and hops out of the truck. As she makes her way to the front entrance, she hears him yell through the open window, "You don't have the patience to knit!"

Probably true.

A wall of stale heat hits her as she walks in. She realizes that the place isn't air conditioned and almost scowls. Somebody better be making her strawberry waffles every day for a month…

She has her pick of seats at the bar and chooses one at the end so she can slump against the wall. A TV plays lowly at the other end of the bar, and Paige recognizes one of the low budget monster movies that she sometimes pays half attention to in the middle of the night if she can't sleep.

"What can I get for you, sweetheart?"

Genuinely startled, Paige jumps in her seat the appearance of the bartender who appeared out of nowhere. The woman, who looks to be in her late-forties, sweeps the dark, sweaty hair at the nape of her neck into a high ponytail and winks.

"I have no idea." She sighs and runs her hands over her face, hoping she looks properly dejected. "What's good at…1:26 in the afternoon?"

"Uh oh," the bartender chuckles. "I've been here a long time, and I don't usually see people start day drinking for the first time when everything's going their way."

Resting her arms on the cool bar, she looks the other way and frowns. "Trust me, you don't want to hear about it."

"Hey." When she looks over, the bartender is hunched over, head tilted to the side so she can see her better, and smiling gently. Paige decides she likes her.

"You know," she says softly, and Paige leans closer. "Bartenders are almost as good as hairdressers when it comes to listening to problems. Hell, we help drown them in alcohol so we might be even better."

Paige heaves a sigh, and starts the story she'd concocted on the ride over. She's surprised to find that after her back and forth with Mike, she has some real frustration in her to draw from.

"Ten years," she scoffs. "I've been working in that diner since I was a teenager, and I don't think I've missed more than three days. Then the owner lets his son take the wheel and suddenly we're all old blood. No notice, and he never bothered learning any of our names so he's not giving us any recommendations."

"That's rough," the other woman clucks sympathetically. "The old owner didn't step in?"

"It's his kid," Paige shrugs. "We were just the waitresses."

The monster in the movie playing on the TV roars suddenly, and they both jump. The bartender braces a hand over her heart and soon they're both laughing, doubled over and resting on the bar.

"I needed that, I think," Paige says, smiling slightly.

"I sure didn't," the bartender complains good-naturedly, then softens and reaches to rest a hand on Paige's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your job. I've heard a lot of stories from people in your shoes in my days."

"I shouldn't complain. It's only been a few days. And I'm not much of a spender, so I'll be okay for a little while at least. Other people have it worse."

The bartender shakes her head. "Don't you go thinking that means you don't get to feel sorry for yourself for a bit."

"I think I have feeling sorry for myself down pat," Paige says bitterly. "Day drinking, remember?"

"Right," the bartender laughs. "Let me get you something. I think I have just the thing."

Moments later, she plonks a bottle of soda down on the bar in front of her. Paige picks it up and rolls it in her hands, looking back at her in confusion.

"I know I said I didn't know what I wanted, but this isn't what I had in mind."

"Probably not," the bartenders admits. "But it won't do any good to train you drunk. Now, hop back here and I'll show you the ropes before the happy hour crowd rolls in. You start tonight."

* * *

The bartender's name is Deb and she spends the whole afternoon re-teaching Paige things that she actually knows from previous experience but shouldn't know if she spent the last ten years working in a diner. Deb gives her all sorts of new information like that she has two nieces that work on the weekends when they need an extra hand and to stay away from Greg in the corner because he's always asking for trouble and he usually gets it.

Halfway through the night, a man that she recognizes from Mike's pictures walks in and Deb snags her by the shoulders to introduce her.

"Here I am, in need of a bartender, and in waltzes Paige. Ten years of restaurant experience and she just sits down at my bar. What do you say to that?"

"I say it's time to start buying lottery tickets," he says kindly, reaching to wrap his warm hand around hers and shake. "It's good to meet you, Paige. I'm Alan. Been here long?"

"Since two or so," she says, trying to keep the smile on her face as she inconspicuously wipes the sweat he left on her hands on the back of her jeans.

"Going on eight hours," he whistles. "Head on back to the kitchen and ask Ray to fix you something to eat."

She protests but ends up being herded into the kitchen. Just as well. She has to get a read on the cook anyway.

Ray grins widely and sits her down at the counter while he throws a burger on the grill for her. She takes her dinner break in the kitchen with him, and by the time it's over, she's pretty certain that while he's nice, he doesn't have the organization he would need to broker unregistered guns. She can't rule him out for good but doesn't feel the need to put a whole lot of focus on him.

When she comes back out, Johnny's there, standing on the bar and trying to lead the bar in a drinking song that no one (including Johnny) knows. Deb yells for him to get off her bar before she throws him out on his ass. Again. He winks at Paige before he hops down and goes to pester the regular they're supposed to be keeping an eye on.

Paige shakes her head and looks up at the customer that just sat down across from her. "What can I get you?"

"Give me one of Deb's firecrackers," he mumbles, eyes fixed on his lap, probably looking at his phone.

"Help me out," she says, squinting and trying to remember if Deb taught her how to make one that afternoon. So far it's mostly just been beer and margaritas, with the occasional gin and tonic or mai tai in the mix. "Do you know what's in it?"

The man looks up and blinks at her just as Deb swoops in behind her and smiles.

"Are you giving the new girl a hard time?" she asks sternly. "Because I'm equally sure of three things; she's young, she's pretty, and she wants nothing to do with you."

Paige grins in thanks.

The night ends with her walking a seemingly inebriated Johnny to the door, and offering to help close up. Deb winks and tells her no one cleans up after their first day on her watch, but she'll really put her to work the next night.

Mike's waiting in the truck, parked in the exact same spot it was when she left it, though she knows he went home not long after she went in.

"Hi," she says, as she slides in, pausing for Mike to remove a shopping bag from the seat.

"Hey." He smiles and kisses her, any hard feelings about earlier apparently gone. "How was it?"

"Good. I don't think we're looking at the cook, but I don't have anything solid."

"You'll figure it out," he promises. "Got you something."

He drops the shopping bag in her lap and she laughs as she unearths a pair of knitting needles and some garish purple yarn. "Thank you."

She doesn't know how to knit and has no ambition to learn, but she thinks the message is more of a peace offering anyway. Taking one of the heavy, metal needles between her fingers, she twirls it slightly and whistles under breath.

"Look at these bad boys," she says, impressed. "Jab one of these in someone's eye and they're not getting back up."

Mike chokes a surprised laugh. As he turns them towards home, he throws an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in closer. "And to think I didn't picture you as a knitter."


	2. Chapter 2

The problem with an undercover day job is that you're expected to work full shifts even though most of the useful information comes in during a prime two or three hours. While Deb covers the morning shift on her own, Paige reports for duty late in the afternoon and stays all night. So without even trying to, she gets her revenge for those mornings where Mike took a little too much pleasure in disrupting her sleep. Between the six of them, there still aren't enough household cars to spare one sitting in the bar parking lot all day. Which means lucky Mike gets to drop her off at the start of her shift and drag himself out of bed to bring her home at a little after two.

Tonight, the rowdy Friday night crowd did a number on the bar that took forever to repair, so it's pushing three in the morning when she finally slings her bag over her shoulder and heads to the parking lot. The truck is parked in its usual spot, and as she gets closer, she spots Mike snoozing against the steering wheel. She raps on the driver's side window and watches him startle and jump.

"Sorry," Paige grins as she buckles her seatbelt. "Want me to drive?"

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he shakes his head and blearily reaches to stroke his thumb along the side of her knee. "I got it. Long night?"

She shrugs. "Felt like it, but I didn't get shot at, so it couldn't have been that bad."

"That's the spirit."

Even as they pull out, he still isn't looking totally awake, and she's not sure how well he can see through eyes that aren't _quite_ open the whole way. Wincing, Paige turns the air conditioning up as far as it will go and feels better as she instantly feels herself perk up at the cool air. Until that second, she hadn't noticed just how exhausted she was, but now that it's on her mind, it's all she can think about. Her head feels heavy, and she rests it against the cool window and lets her eyes ease closed.

She can feel Mike looking at her before his hand finds hers on the center console. "I'm sorry this is taking so long."

"It's the weirdest thing." She heaves an exaggerated sigh through her grin. "I've been working in that place for almost two whole weeks now, and not one person has told me all their deepest, darkest, gun-smuggling secrets."

Mike laughs. "Damn. People are so paranoid these days. Who do they think you are, some kind of federal agent or something?"

Jabbing a pointed elbow into his side, Paige relaxes into her seat and pops her feet up on the dashboard. Probably she's imagining things, but it sort of looks like they're swollen, which makes sense because they are absolutely throbbing because they haven't had a break since three that afternoon. But she knows if she rubs at them like she's aching to, Mike will get that stupidly guilty look on his face. Logically they both know that this is all part of her job, and she would damn well be doing it whether it was his case or not. But Mike can't get it out of his head that any complaints she has about her position should rest on his shoulders.

She's too tired to appreciate what a miracle it is that Mike gets them home safely, but she does appreciate the ride and kisses him to let him know.

"You should head up to bed," she suggests softly. "I need to get something to eat, but I'll be up soon."

He mumbles something in agreement and lets her grab him by the shoulders and lead him through the door.

Paige is expecting to walk into a sleeping house at this hour, but Charlie and Paul are up and poring over some paperwork at the kitchen table. After giving Mike an encouraging shove up the stairs, she heads their way. When she spots her, Charlie opens her arms and nods towards the tiny sliver left next to her on the bench. Paige slides in next to her, half on her lap, and rests her head against her shoulder.

"Hey workin' girl," Charlie whispers. "Tired?"

Her eyes are already closed, and it takes more effort than it should to nod and moan something affirmative, so that's a safe bet. Paul chuckles as Charlie tuts in sympathy.

"Was the place rocking tonight?"

Blindly fishing in her pocket, she snags the thick roll of bills she's made of the night's tips and drops it on the table with an audible thud.

Briggs sucks in a low whistle, impressed. "Well, shit. Looks like we're in the wrong business. You and me, Chuck. Let's retire to lives of leisure and let this one bring home the bacon."

"Don't," Paige snorts. "It's mostly ones and Johnny's been marking his tips with permanent marker so he can get them back the next day."

She pulls a bill out of the middle of the pile and smooths it out to show them. Sure enough, Abraham Lincoln gives them a one-eyed stare from the five dollar bill, the other eye covered with an inky eye patch. Somewhere in there, there are five or six other presidents sporting various enhancements, ranging from hoop earrings to teardrop tattoos.

"That little shit," Charlie hisses, outraged. "Don't give him a dime of that."

Shrugging, she plays with the rubber band around the pile, twisting it around her finger until it spins. Truthfully, she doesn't mind. Johnny's been sinking a lot of money into drinks that are either fake (if she made them) or end up poured out into a bucket she managed to hide behind the jukebox.

That's going to be a hard one to explain if any of the other employees find it.

Besides, she's sort of looking forward to watching him pay for something with that one bill with the cross between George Washington and Princess Diana on it.

Idly, she flips through the paper mess on the table until the address of the bar jumps out at her from a form at the bottom. Mournfully, she stares up the stairs and imagines herself going to straight to her comfortable bed and curling up next to Mike, who's probably already there. But she knows better than anybody that that isn't going to happen until she's satisfied herself with whatever new information Charlie and Paul have on her case. "What's all this?" she asks wearily.

Charlie smiles in a way that makes her think she knows exactly what just played out in her head. "A good thing, we think. And, even better, word on the street is that Paul's going to make us a midnight snack while we look at it."

"That's a nasty rumor," Briggs grumbles as he gets up to do what she said.

"Macaroni and cheese," Paige requests because it cooks quickly and will satisfy the major craving for carbs she can feel building in herself.

"Ooh," Charlie adds. "The kind with the broccoli mixed in."

Paul rolls his eyes. "I watched you down half a pizza an hour ago."

With one hand, Charlie flips him off while the other hand is searching through the folders for something specific. As she's looking, there's a scuffle on the stairs that draws their attention to the landing, where Johnny and Jakes are weakly shoving at each other, too tired to fully commit to their usual bickering.

"Oh good," Dale deadpans. "We aren't being robbed. It's just these three jerks not giving a shit about who they wake up."

Paige scoffs. "You were all the way upstairs and we're practically whispering. What are you, the freaking princess and the pea?"

Eyes narrowed in on her, he scowls and nudges Johnny with his elbow. "Who's the blonde one again? She's never here anymore, I keep forgetting."

"Some crazy bartender that followed me home," Johnny grins. "Happens more than you'd think."

He bumps his hip into her shoulder until both her and Charlie slide down and make room. He holds out an empty hand, presumably for his tips, but she slaps him a high five instead.

"Come on," he groans, and Paige smiles. She claps her tips into his hand and leans forward so Charlie can reach past her and drive a fist into his arm.

"I'm not made of money," Johnny defends as he starts to sift through the cash, looking for his bills. "I can't be paying her ten bucks a night to make me rum and cokes without the rum."

Rolling her eyes, Charlie lets it drop and hands her a smeared print-out of a mugshot. "You see this guy before?"

It's hard to tell with the black eye and the slack, drunk expression on his face, but as she mentally sifts through the barrage of new faces she's encountered in the past two weeks, she comes up with a match. "He was there all night Monday. Haven't seen him since."

"I remember that guy," Johnny adds. "Dude was knocking them back for real faster than I could fake it."

"Must be a hobby of his. Smashed his car into a pole a couple hours ago. DUI. When the uniforms searched his car, they found this." On top of the paper already in her hand, Charlie drops another print out. A plain handgun with some scratches on the matte metal. Nothing fancy.

Paul sets her bowl of pasta on the table in front of her, before returning to the counter grab forks and a bowl for Charlie. "According to the conditions of our friend Donovan's parole, that's a big no no."

"Let me guess," Paige sighs. "No record of where he got it, and he's not talking."

Charlie nods. "Got it one."

She wracks her brain, running every retrievable second of Monday night over in her head. It's bad enough that one of the people she's been watching is running this operation without giving her anything to work with, but the fact that this deal went down right under nose grates on her. If someone had actually been shot with that gun…

"He came in around seven," she explains. "I didn't know how to make what he wanted, so Deb took care of him, but I brought him a couple of shots later. Left around 1:30, and paid with a credit card."

Briggs shakes his head. "He doesn't have a credit card."

"Someone should really tell that to the credit card he paid with." Thinking back again, she comes to the conclusion that yes, she did actually see the card in his hand. "He opened a tab," she says finally. "He would have had to run a card and let us scan his driver's license to attach to it."

"You're telling me there's a piece of paper in that place with his friggin' face on it?" Charlie asks. When Paige nods, she slaps the table. "Then we're in business."

"Good candidate for a plea deal," Johnny says through a mouthful of macaroni. He washes it down with a beer that he finally gets to actually drink and lets out a contented sigh.

"That's what we're thinking," Paul agrees. "Wave that paper in front of him so he knows we already have something, see what it gets us."

Paige winces. "Yeah, except I have no idea where that paper is. Deb takes closed tabs into the office at the end of the night and I never see them again."

But no one else seems the slightest bit concerned. Charlie waves her off. "You'll find it," she assures her. "You're good like that."

"Woah, someone thinks so." Johnny pokes her side and shoves a bill into her hand. "Who the hell is tipping you in hundreds?"

"Seriously?" She looks closer and realizes that he's right. Surprised, she turns it over in her hands like the zeros are going to fall off and make it look somewhat normal. It's a little unnerving that something like that didn't register when she picked it up, but it could have come in the middle of a rush, while she was trying to make other drinks. Still, she doesn't remember anyone ordering enough to justify it. "Huh."

She stands and stretches, ready to take her empty bowl to the sink and head to bed. As she does, Mike enters the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and looking sleep-ruffled and muddled. His eyes rake over the paperwork on the table before moving to his housemates who are sitting around drinking beer and scarfing down macaroni and cheese at what must be close to four am.

"Does this happen every night?" he asks gruffly.

Jakes throws up his hands, pretending they just spilled some kind of secret. "Well, not anymore!"

The joke is lost on Mike who glances at Paige, confused.

"Come on," she says softly, taking his hand. "Let's get you to bed. I'll explain on the way."

Johnny wolf-whistles at them until they reach the second landing and disappear.

He's never getting any of his tips back again.

She hops in the shower for a few seconds and plaits her hair to deal with tomorrow. When she returns, Mike has settled against the headboard, definitely seeming more alert. He's poking suspiciously at the few inches of yarn that she's managed to knit into a sort-of-rectangle in an effort to prove her point.

"It kind of looks like a dead rat," he muses, moving over to free up her side of the bed. "A dead, purple rat."

Ignoring that, she deliberately sinks a knee into his gut as she takes the path of most resistance and scrambles over him to get to her side.

"Ow," he complains. "I'm just saying. Why the hell does is matter if you're good at knitting?"

"Not the point."

He rolls his eyes and rolls up on his side to switch the light off. "I'd find you in a pretzel on the floor tomorrow morning if I said you can't touch your nose to your elbow, huh?"

"Shhh."

Their limbs tangle momentarily in the dark until they manage to sink into their normal resting places. Paige rests her head against his shoulder and hikes the covers up over her collarbone, capturing the bottom of the bedspread with her toes so it doesn't slip over her feet. In the hallway, the main light blinks off so the last of their roommates must be headed to bed. Now that she's letting herself feel it, the exhaustion from the day is building up behind her eyes. For the sake of her focus on the job, she should probably start sleeping in until at least noon.

Paige snorts. Mike would get a kick out of that.

"Tell me about your day," she orders.

Mike laughs and props his chin on her head while he gives her the highlight reel. He actually has a few days to draw from because she came and conked out straight away on Wednesday and Thursday nights. Jakes wasn't actually that far off. It's like she's not even living there anymore.

She realizes that Mike has trailed off and turns to look at his face, trying to glean whether or not he just asked a question that she's expected to answer. He looks thoughtful, but doesn't seem to be waiting on her.

"Why don't we ever sleep in my room?" he asks when she pokes at him.

"Because it smells like hair gel."

He blows out a long breath that ruffles her hair. "Like good hair gel, though."

A small, unimpressed noise starts in her throat that turns into a shriek when he rolls over on top of her.

"It's not bad," she admits, as he lowers his forehead down to hers.

* * *

Sunday afternoons run understandably slow at the bar, so it's just her and Deb there when they open. Probably things will pick up around six or so, but until then Deb is playing against herself at the pool table, and Paige is winding herself up into a yarn-fueled rage.

"Honey," Deb chuckles. "I say this fondly, but that thing you're stabbing at is ugly as sin."

"No, it's not." Though, she isn't quite sure how it ended up twice as wide at the top as it is at the bottom. "It's just a work in progress."

Deb props her cue against the table and comes over to inspect her work. "Is it supposed to have all those holes in it?"

Groaning, Paige rests her forehead on the bar and winces at the sticky feeling of almost dried alcohol against her skin. She should really wipe that down better before anyone else comes. Helpfully, Deb gently lifts her head up an inch or two off the wood and slides her knitting project underneath to act as a coaster before she drops it again. Paige snorts.

"Come on," Deb encourages, rubbing her shoulder. "I'll show you how to hustle anyone who gives you trouble out of all the money they didn't tip you."

She's been playing Johnny and Briggs for quarters and nights off as early as her first night at Graceland, so she only listens with half an ear to Deb's instruction. She's not amazing at pool by any means, but she can certainly get by. They've settled into a game and have each sunken about half their balls when Paige decides to make her move.

"I forgot to tell you," she starts casually, digging the cue ball out of the pocket after a scratch. "That Johnny kid? Here every night, kind of a pain in the ass but a harmless one?"

Deb snorts. "I'm familiar."

"He wanted to open a tab the other night but he wouldn't let me scan his license. He was afraid of where it might end up."

Deb lines up her shot and shakes her head. "He'll have to get over it. It's a little overkill, but we had a problem a while back with a customer claiming we let his information get out. Nearly took poor Alan for all he was worth."

Financial problems. Maybe she should be looking at the owner a little harder.

"If he asks again, I'll handle it," Deb interrupts. "It's safe. It goes in that bin in the corner of the office, and the shredding company picks it up at the beginning of the week. Alan likes to have a record that we're taking that shit seriously."

"He really got burned, didn't he?"

"It was rough." She smiles taps Paige's forehead with her pool cue. "But it's all taken care of now. Don't you worry about a thing. Except how you're going to get that twelve ball of yours in the pocket without sinking the eight."

"That bin in the corner of the office" turns out to be mounted to the floor, with a thin slot to slide paper through and a top that requires a key to take off. Paige has picked more than a few locks in her day, but the time it would take to do it plus the time it would take to sort through and find the paper she's looking for is something she just doesn't have.

Cursing Alan for his paranoia and Business Records Management for their thoroughly protected boxes, she takes out her phone to snap a picture of the address stamped on the side of the bin. When she presses the button to bring it to life, the screen stays dark, and she almost swears aloud. She shoves the dead phone back in her pocket and keeps her eyes on the door as she steals a blank page off a notepad to jot down the address.

"You find it?" Deb asks when she rejoins her behind the bar.

Triumphantly, Paige holds up the dummy credit card that she kicked under the door earlier and hangs the key to the office back on the hook. "Yeah, thanks. It must have fallen out of my pocket when we were in there doing the beverage orders for next week. Did I miss anything good?"

"Had to toss our resident party animal out for the third time."

Her head automatically whips to face her, but she covers it with a stretch. "You mean Johnny?"

"The one and the same." She taps a glass out of her shaker and pours it into two half-prepared drinks. "Here."

Paige takes the drinks and adds a garnish to the edge, keeping silent in the hopes that Deb will go on and tell her what happened with Johnny.

"Take these over to that table in the corner." Deb nods towards a faraway table, where the regular Johnny's been keeping an eye on and a man that she doesn't think she's seen before are deep in conversation. "It's on the house. Damage control for the kid buzzing around him all night."

Ah. There it is.

She loads the glasses onto a tray and balances it on her arm as she approaches the table. They stop talking as she comes up behind them, but there's nothing they can do to keep her from seeing the wad of bills changing hands.

Shit.

"Gentlemen," Paige smiles widely, setting the glasses on the table. "On us. Sorry for the trouble earlier."

The regular nods. "We'll take the check when these are gone."

It's clear that they aren't going to continue their conversation until she's long gone. She drops the tray behind the bar and reaches for her phone to text Mike, who should be in the parking lot by now, before remembering that it won't do any good.

Shit, shit, shit.

There are people waving for her attention, and she pretends to give them all of it when she's really running scenarios in her head, hoping to find one that ends in her being able to follow the two at the corner table without endangering her job here by leaving Deb alone in a rush.

Something clicks in the back of her mind, and she has to suppress a groan. It's probably not the best plan she could have come up with. In fact, it might not even be the best plan she has come up with _already_ , but her thoughts are so jumbled that this is the only that sticks out clearly.

She closes her eyes, braces her body for what she's about to do, and lets herself drop.

The light seems so much brighter now that she's staring directly at the ceiling, and she tries not to close her eyes tighter. She can feel her clothes sticking to the dirty floor and can't help picturing the grime on the bottom of her shoes when she's done with a night at this place. She wants a shower, and she wants it now.

Deb is on her the second she goes down, Paige can feel her cool hands on her forehead and cheek. The crowd at the bar goes silent, and it's only when she hears someone asking if they should call an ambulance that she opens her eyes.

"No honey, stay down," Deb urges as Paige pretends to struggle up on her forearms. "Take it easy."

She sits up against the back of the bar and pretends to look suitably embarrassed. "I'm fine," she promises, feigning a self-conscious laugh. "I'm okay. I think it's just the heat."

It takes a while, but she finally manages to convince Deb that she'll be fine if she just heads home and gets some rest. Alan takes over the bar while Deb gets an arm under both of hers and leads her out into the parking lot. Over her shoulder, she checks back at the corner table and sighs in relief when she sees that her marks are still there.

"I don't want to see your face anywhere near here tomorrow," Deb says sternly, as she rips the passenger door to the truck open.

Mike scrambles and drops his book as Deb helps her into her seat.

"You," she snaps. "This piece of junk have air conditioning?"

He nods in confusion and turns it up all the way.

"Take her home, make sure she eats, keep her there until Tuesday," Deb orders before closing the door and setting off towards the bar.

"She's nice," Mike says, dumbstruck.

He turns towards Paige, a look of genuine concern on his face, and reaches to feel her forehead. She catches it in midair and leans across him to turn the key in the ignition.

"We need to tail a guy," she explains. Sort of.

"Of course we do."

"And tomorrow, we need to break into a shredding facility."

"Of course we- what?"


End file.
